


A Story Told Twice

by WickedIntentions



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Bending, Childhood Trauma, Crime, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Arrangement, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gritty, Historically Inaccurate, Living Together, Loss of Virginity, Lust, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misconceptions, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot-heavy, Politics, Power Play, Seduction, Self-Loathing, Smoking, Torture, Underground Plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19457611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedIntentions/pseuds/WickedIntentions
Summary: Noatak is a retired Red Lotus mercenary who returns home to Republic City for the first time in over two decades. Korra is a high-school dropout who dreams of being a melee fighter for the Fire Ferrets. He thinks she’s involved in a plot to assassinate his brother and eclipses her life to try to prevent it from happening. She has no clue what's going on.





	1. Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> **This story predominantly deals with** Korra’s sexual appetite for both Amon (Noatak) and Tarrlok, as well as Mako/Asami. They are key to the events of the story, so you’ll see a lot of them. Amon is forty years old, Tarrlok is thirty-seven, and Korra is eighteen. Personally, I always fantasized about older men as early as my preteen years, which is why I write taboo pairings. It’s harmless fiction to me.
> 
>  **In the background, you’ll also find** brief instances of the Lieutenant’s unrequited interest in Amon. This ultimately has no bearing on where the story leads you; it’s just a new perspective on their relationship.
> 
>  **I decided to write this story** to satisfy a number of curiosities. For example, I wondered what it might be like if Tarrlok was forced to be a leader rather than choosing that path for himself. (He was such a sweet child. I’m of the opinion that he’s also a sweet man when he wants to be.) The thought of Noatak playing guardian angel in the background excited me. Season one of _The Legend of Korra_ was fascinating to me, so I’m always thinking of different ways to spin this yarn while trying to stay true to the original characterizations. Also, this fandom doesn’t get enough love.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

**Day I.**

_Sunday, September 28, 1919_

* * *

* * *

The feel of the hot spotlights bearing down overhead through a cloud of moist air; the smell of lit tobacco and stale sweat; the sound of cartilage snapping under the force of a single punch; the sight of a perfectly crimson-hued bloody nose; and the taste of salty sweat collected in the bow of her upper lip—every single one of Korra’s senses is attuned.

She stands at the railing overlooking the ring where the Fire Ferrets are currently locked in tense combat with their longtime rivals, the White Falls Wolfbats. Her knuckles turn white as she clutches the rusty aluminum, and her chest squashes against her hands as she leans forward for a better look. The railing gives an ominous creak under her weight but holds steady.

“Aaand… Tahno’s down with another punch from Mako!” Shiro Shinobi cries through the speakers lining the arena. “I don’t know about you folks, but I definitely felt that one all the way up here. That’s… a lot of blood, actually.”

“C’mon, Fire Ferrets,” Korra mutters, unable to tear her eyes away from the action below. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

“Without their fearless leader, the Wolfbats will need to double up their efforts if they want to win this one. Can they do it— _oooh,_ and down goes Ming from Bolin’s famous left hook! It’s three on one, and Shaozu is backed into a corner. They say a wounded wolfbat is twice as dangerous, so you never know—he might still have a fighting chance!”

“Get him, Mako!” She pushes off the railing and batters it with her palms. Across the way, other fans leave their seats to follow her example. “Let’s go, Bolin! Right there—you have an opening, Hasook!”

“Is he…? Yes! It’s a knockout! The White Falls Wolfbats, four-time undefeated champs, are down,” Shiro cries triumphantly through the roaring din. “Give it up for your winners of the evening, the Republic City’s own Future Industries _Fire Ferrets!”_

Korra cackles and leaps in place, throwing her hands up into the air. “All right!”

“Well, that’s all for tonight, folks. Thanks for coming out, and drive safely. Make sure to mark your calendars—this Wednesday, our Fire Ferrets take on their next challengers, the Ember Island Eel Hounds. If you have a blue wristband, bring it with you to get in for free. Good night!”

There’s a surge of noise as the chatty spectators shuffle toward the exits. Korra places her elbows on the railing and props her chin up as she continues staring down into the empty ring. Her smile slowly wanes into a wistful frown. Around her, her fellow janitors wheel out cleaning supplies from the supply closet and begin wiping down seats and sweeping crushed popcorn kernels and cigarette butts. With a final longing glance, she moves to join them.

Tidying the colossal Republic City Arena is mostly a silent affair, disturbed only by the dutiful sounds of cleaning. The janitors don’t chat with each other; each is far too focused on completing the task as quickly as possible. Korra, lost in thought over the match, is no exception as she crouches to sweep under the seats in her section. She doesn’t even know their names, let alone how to strike up a conversation.

She thinks back to when she first moved to Republic City two weeks ago.

Korra originally takes this job at fifty yuans a week because most jobs available for women are demeaning. Her skills are painfully few. Coming from a sheltered community, she doesn’t know how to use a typewriter, and she certainly can’t type more than fifteen words a minute. She hates talking on the phone. She’s next to useless in most employers’ eyes, and they don’t want to take the time to train her. Comparatively, this job is a steal.

On her first day of being a janitor, she doesn’t expect to leave with the dream to someday join the Fire Ferrets and fight in a real match. Her skills may not be on par with theirs, but she knows self-defense and has won fist fights in the past. With some training, she believes that she can be just as good as them. The thought carries her to the manager with a light step and an anxious heart. She offers herself as a substitute.

Learning that it’s against the law for women to fight in the arena is a massive blow that she should have expected.

Back in the present, the sky is pitch-black when she steps out of her dusty gray uniform, hangs it in the supply closet with her push broom, and leaves the arena. The moon is hidden behind a thick mass of clouds, leaving only the dusky street lights to illuminate her path home. Behind her, her coworkers exchange brusque farewells and disperse in different directions, leaving her to walk alone.

The area surrounding Republic City Arena is low-income and shabby, but Korra doesn’t allow herself to feel fear when she trudges home at night on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She holds her head high, and, before long, she’s reaching for the door handle to her apartment complex. It hangs off its hinges and makes a terribly shrill noise when it swings open, and sickly yellow light spills out from the foyer to greet her.

She’s always amazed that the old elevator still works. It creaks like an old kneecap and gives an unpleasant jerk when it comes to a stop, but she still reaches for the button to call it. It arrives after several moments, and the iron gates swing open.

Korra pauses in mid-step when she sees a dark figure huddled in the corner. The scruffy man lifts his head to glance at her, but he quickly loses interest and lies back down.

It’s a bad idea, but pride tells her to do it anyway because she’s already here. She steps into the small space with the unknown man—a homeless vagrant, no doubt, looking for shelter because there’s no lock on the front door _and, spirits, Tenzin really needs to do something about that_ —and presses the button painted with the number three. The suspenseful seconds pass as they rise, and she keeps herself partially angled so she can watch him with her peripheral vision.

She’s an eighteen-year-old woman all alone at night. She isn’t terrible to look at. The risks are all but obvious.

It’s almost a disappointment when the man doesn’t react as she steps out on the third floor. Korra chuckles at herself as she heads down the hallway and turns an abrupt corner. Her eyes immediately land on an amorous couple making out against the left wall, directly in her path. Both of them have profiles consisting of black hair and pale skin. A large gloved hand cups a feminine cheek dusted with white powder, and blood-red lips part in a soft sigh.

Korra cringes in embarrassment and forces herself to continue forward with silent steps, hoping they don’t notice her. She’s never seen the woman before, but she thinks the man is one of her neighbors. She has never talked to him and only ever sees him in passing.

“No, Mako,” the woman mumbles in protest. “Not out here.”

“C’mon,” he urges. “Please?”

“Hey—I said no!”

Korra leaps out of her skin when something hard crashes against her side and sends her careening. She whips her head around. The man, Mako— _Nah, it’s just a coincidence_ —makes brief eye contact with her before returning to his irate companion.

“Asami—”

“—I said we could kiss. I didn’t say you could feel me up.”

“All right, my bad. Okay? Won’t happen again.”

Korra continues on her way with a hurried step and reaches her unmarked apartment door. Somewhere at her back, a door opens to a call of, “It’s your turn to take out the trash, Mako! Man, that cheese stinks so bad!” With a turn of her key and a stifled grin, she shuts herself away inside her apartment and flicks the lights on.

_Home sweet home,_ she thinks, taking in her living room through tired eyes. A ratty brown loveseat and plywood coffee table sit front and center. A small table sits beside the couch and holds an overbalanced stack of mail. The floors are paneled wood, but she has a forest-green rug covering most of it so she doesn’t accidentally scratch it up. The eggshell-white walls are textured with haphazard drywall and devoid of pictures or decorative hangings. She hasn’t had the time or inclination to decorate yet.

To her left, the open-concept kitchen holds a refrigerator, ice box, oven, and electric range. To her right, an ajar door leads to her bedroom, closet, and attached bathroom.

The apartment isn’t much, but it holds all the necessities and provides somewhere to keep her stuff. Although she isn’t required to pay rent, she does it anyway.

Tenzin, the middle-aged proprietor of Temple Apartments, her home, is a longtime friend of her parents and has become a regular figure in her life. Korra occasionally eats with his family because his wife, Pema, is a fantastic cook. She also endures his advice and criticism when he insists on trying to gently govern her life.

He disagrees with her job at the arena and makes sure to remind her every time he sees her. His concern is obvious, even a little touching, but it does get on her nerves.

“Republic City is the most boring city in the world,” she has refuted based on her two weeks of experience. “You’d have to be looking for trouble to find it here. I always keep my head down.”

Despite her reassurances, he remains skeptical—probably because she got kicked out of high school for fighting. She wasn’t keeping her head down then. It wasn’t her finest moment, but she’s doing her best to prove that she’s not that kind of person anymore.

Whether the guy deserved it or not is moot at this point, a year later.

Korra stifles a yawn into her wrist and heads to the kitchen to make a quick sandwich. She’s too lazy to cut a tomato and eats the sliced ham plain between two pieces of wheat bread. With her other hand, she ties up her trash bag and leaves the apartment with it.

* * *

* * *

Mako finishes his cigarette, tosses the stub to the ground, and squashes it under the toe of his boot. He never lets his brother see him smoking, so he does it in the shadow of Temple Apartments near the dumpster. A spritz from his bottle of cologne and a few pieces of spearmint gum do little against the acrid tobacco scent, but he always blames it on Republic City Arena’s smoky atmosphere. The scent never really goes away.

From his vantage point, he can see his neighbor taking out her trash. He doesn’t know her name. She doesn’t see him and walks right past him without a sidelong look. He takes a few extra minutes to breathe the cool night air and sort out tomorrow’s schedule before heading back inside.

Opening his apartment door, he discovers that Bolin is having a loud and enthusiastic conversation with a female—not Asami, who is perched on the couch and quietly reading a magazine. As he hangs up his coat on the rack by the door, he listens in.

“I can’t believe I’ve been living next to you guys for weeks without knowing you’re Fire Ferrets! I mean, I had my suspicions, but…”

“Heh, yeah, we tend to keep to ourselves,” Bolin responds. “And Mako’s kind of shy.”

_No, I’m not,_ Mako thinks with a roll of his eyes, lurking in the doorway unseen. _We have to be careful about who we associate with._

As if hearing his thoughts, Asami pushes her hair behind her ear and gives him a coy glance from under her long lashes. Winning over the beautiful Sato heiress had been pure luck, a literal spirits-given “in-the-right-place-at-the-right-time” moment. While equal parts enthralled with her beauty and intimidated by her social standing and wealth, he has come to appreciate her kindness, patience, and intelligence. She complements him well, though he’s not entirely sure how she fell for a guy like him.

“So, why are you living here? With your kind of salary, you could live anywhere—even a fancy penthouse.”

Disliking the trajectory of the conversation, Mako decides to announce himself before Bolin can answer. “We have to be careful with our money just like everyone else.”

They both jump when he steps into the living room. The couch is a large “L” shape that fits snug against the contours of the wall, and they’re sitting together on the segment adjacent to the one his girlfriend is occupying. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he appraises the visitor with a cool gaze. He recognizes her as their aforementioned neighbor, the one who comes back late at night at least three times a week, and he doesn’t like that he knows nothing about her.

“Heeey, Mako,” Bolin greets in his endearingly irksome way—as if they hadn’t just seen each other ten minutes ago. He has broken out the chocolate-chip cookies and milk; it’s obvious that he likes this girl. “This is Korra. She lives across the hall from us.”

“Nice to meet you.” Korra offers a wave as she munches on a cookie. Her dark-brown hair hangs in disarray past her shoulders, and her oceanic-blue eyes crinkle at the corners. She seems harmless enough, but Mako isn’t fooled by first impressions.

Maintaining a blank face, he gets straight to the point. “How do you know our salary?”

“Oh.” She quickly swallows and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “I wanted to join your team, so I talked to the manager. I wasn’t being creepy or anything; it just came up.”

_“You?_ A melee fighter?” Mako’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and he looks her up and down. He can’t imagine her throwing or receiving punches in the ring. She bristles at his disbelief, and even Asami interrupts her reading to give him a reproachful look. It was clearly the wrong thing to say in mixed company.

Korra’s eyes no longer look friendly. “Yeah. So?”

“Just surprised, I guess. I’ve never heard of a girl wanting to fight for money.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen, anyway. It’s apparently against the law.”

Bolin shifts and throws his arm over the back of the couch. “You can thank the chairman for that one. Tarrlok’s always passing outrageous laws. He’s been in office for almost an entire term now, and all he’s managed to do is make enemies. He _knows_ what the people want, but he always does the opposite. It’s crazy.”

Mako tenses at the mention of Tarrlok, and his mind inadvertently flashes back to a snippet of conversation he overheard yesterday.

_“He’s corrupt—heart’s black as coal. Someone needs to take him out before the criminals get him re-elected. Thanks to Yakone, they have their claws dug so deep into this city that it’s bleeding money for them.”_

_“What about the kid? No one will suspect him.”_

_“The recruiter? Yeah… Yeah, that could work. Let me think on it.”_

Korra’s voice pulls him back. “Well, if nobody likes him, he won’t get re-elected. Simple, right?”

“I mean…” Bolin hesitates, “nobody else is planning on running against him. Maybe they’re scared. I don’t know. Now, I’m no expert, but, when you only have one choice on the ballot…”

“Then maybe people shouldn’t vote.”

He chokes out an odd cough-laugh at the idea and consequently dribbles milk on himself.

Mako refuses to participate in this conversation and takes a seat next to Asami, who curls up under his arm without looking up from her magazine. As he presses a distracted kiss to her head, he notices that she’s engrossed in an article about recent developments in Fire Nation steam technology. She’s her father’s daughter through and through. It’s too bad the man hates him.

Hiroshi Sato, founder of Future Industries and the reluctant benefactor of their melee team, is quick to dismiss him as a bad influence on his daughter—yet, unbeknownst to Asami, he and Mako are both part of a terrorist organization planning to assassinate the chairman. How does it go? ‘Equality for everyone by unearthing the bad seeds.’

Mako narrows his eyes at the glossy page.

_Hypocrite._

* * *

* * *

Yue hangs over City Hall like a spotlight. Street lights and trimmed hedges line the walkway, and the moonlight spills like white-blue carpet up the cement staircase leading to the front doors. A long shadow heralds the arrival of Tarrlok, who is just getting back from a late dinner with Omashu’s commerce minister. His armed escort follows four steps behind.

He’s tired and hoarse from talking all night, but he still has paperwork to take care of before morning. He enters the gleaming, domed building and heads for the stairs that lead to the second floor, where his office is. His guards know not to follow him in; they wordlessly station themselves around the door as he shuts it behind him. He hangs up his coat before rounding his semi-circle desk, and, just as he starts to sink into his chair, he spots the envelope waiting for him.

Tarrlok’s eyes instinctively dart to the left-hand corner, but there isn’t a name or return address. On the right, it’s postmarked from a city that sounds distinctly Earth Kingdom, but he can’t be sure. He flips it over and tears through the seal. Inside is a simple piece of parchment bearing a succinct message, and he quickly reads it.

_Tarrlok,_

_You’re a busy man now, so I’ll keep this brief. You probably thought I was dead. Or wished I was. Either way, I’m en route to Republic City and will arrive shortly after this letter does. I’ll say the rest when I see you._

_Noatak_

With an anguished tremor, he lets the letter drop to his desk and props his chin up in his palm. For the longest time, he stares at the neat scrawl and struggles to absorb the implications. His brother is alive and on his way to—what? Reconnect? Make up for decades of abandonment?

Tarrlok learned everything from Noatak, his idol, when they were younger. When he was too shy to talk to other children, he still had his brother to be his best friend and confidant, as he was the only person who knew what it was like to have a cruel father like Yakone. Perhaps holding too tightly to his hand was what made it hurt so much when he disappeared without a trace.

From birth, Noatak was slated to take over their father’s illicit business and gain control of Republic City. Instead, it fell to Tarrlok, the compassionate child who never wanted anything to do with it. With the loss of his firstborn, Yakone immediately began drilling him in the arts of manipulation, drug dealing, money laundering, marksmanship, and violence to mold him into the perfect crime boss. Disobedience was met with swift beatings.

He remembers being forced to order executions and then watch them happen, repeatedly, until the color of blood didn’t faze him anymore. He remembers being the only teenager in the back of a gentlemen’s club, alongside his father’s leery-eyed associates, and experiencing his first shameful bout of lust while a nude woman performed oral sex in full view. He was taunted for trying to hide his erection and for declining a line to celebrate his “awakening.”

He vaguely remembers losing his virginity to that very same woman in a haze of alcohol, clove-scented smoke, and neon lights—

Sickened, Tarrlok crinkles his brother’s letter and envelope into a ball and tosses it into his wastebasket. It takes him until the early morning light to finish his work.


	2. Monday

**Day II.**

_Monday, September 29, 1919_

* * *

* * *

Breakfast consists of a fluffy stack of blueberry pancakes sprinkled with pecan halves, warm banana-oat muffins, yogurt tart with fresh raspberries, egg-and-avocado grilled sandwiches, and chilled orange juice. It’s delicious because Korra didn’t make any of it.

Pema, swollen with third-trimester pregnancy and prone to aching feet, insists she only spent thirty minutes making it all and that she had a lot of help from her darling children. Even so, she appears fairly winded. Korra tries not to look guilty as she digs in—feeling very much like a freeloader. Sinking her teeth into a moist muffin, she has no more room to think about it.

Tenzin, wearing a pair of spectacles on the edge of his nose, is poring over _Republic City Courant_ as he periodically takes a bite out of his sandwich. Jinora is slicing up her pancakes with near-perfect symmetry while she quizzes Ikki with questions from a social-studies textbook. In between bites, Meelo flicks raspberries at his sisters. Naga, an albino retriever puppy, rushes to lap them off the floor, and her nails click on the wood as she endlessly bounds back and forth beneath the table. In the background, soft piano music plays from the radio.

The warm scene is a familiar one and brings a sense of peace. Korra eats a spoonful of yogurt tart and heaves a contented sigh. The sound seems to catch Tenzin’s attention, and he folds up his newspaper and sets it aside. The front page displays a photograph of the Fire Ferrets in mid-fight, accompanied by the headline, “Sunday Skirmish Stuns Spectators.” Korra vividly remembers that moment—Tahno getting punched in his pretty face and knocked out cold.

“So, Korra, what’s new?” Tenzin asks, taking a sip of his orange juice and peering at her from over his glasses. Maybe it’s because his father was a devout monk, but he always strikes her as a sagely old man, closer to eighty years old instead of fifty-one.

“Not a lot, actually. Oh—I met my neighbors last night. Funny, right? _‘Two weeks later…’”_ She taps the newspaper to draw his gaze to the photograph and proceeds to babble, “Anyway, I had no idea I was living next to the Fire Ferrets. Did you know they’re brothers? Well, Mako and Bolin are. Hasook is just another guy on the team, I guess. But—”

“—Mom, Meelo won’t stop!” Jinora whines. “It’s _so hard_ to study when he keeps hitting us with raspberries. Please tell him to stop.”

“Meelo, stop wasting food.”

“It’s not a waste if Naga’s eating it,” he points out, as-a-matter-of-fact. “Not my fault girls can’t catch.”

“That’s enough, children,” Tenzin sternly interjects. “The table is for eating, not playing. Meelo, stop bothering your sisters. All of you need to finish eating so you can get ready for school.”

Smiling at the chorus of mumbles and grumbles from the scolded youngsters, Korra shifts and reaches down to run her fingers across Naga’s silky back as she trots by.

Tenzin finishes the last of his sandwich and dabs at his mouth with his napkin. “You’re still working at that arena?”

_Here we go, right on schedule._ Korra huffs in mild annoyance. “Well, yeah. I have to make money somehow.”

“You would have more money if you’d stop giving it to me.”

“C’mon, we’ve talked about this. I’m not going to live here for free. I’m not a _complete_ freeloader.”

“Well, in that case, I’m going to find you a real job—something more dignified that can enrich your resume instead of harm it.”

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. During her first week, his idea for an “enriching job” was working for the city’s prestigious library, home to the world’s most-preserved collection of antique books. Because of his position on the city council and his academic connections, he managed to get her hired as a librarian despite her lack of qualifications and recommendations. The first day there, she toppled an entire bookcase, which caused a catastrophic domino effect that destroyed the entire genealogy section. They’re _still_ trying to repair the shelves, sweep up the glass, and organize all the displaced books.

Tenzin is an incredibly patient man. He insists that accidents happen. Korra wisely refrains from mentioning that she was doing exactly what the signs said not to do: “Do not lean on the bookcases.”

Accidents happen.

“I’m not going to stand by while you go into that… that _den of debauchery,”_ Tenzin adds with audible contempt and a disdainful harrumph for good measure.

She can’t believe he just called it that and tells him as much. “What is this, the 1800s?”

Ikki, always a curious creature, tilts her head sideways and almost overbalances her chair. She has perfected her cutely puzzled look. “Mommy, what’s ‘debauchery’ mean?”

Pema shoots Tenzin an unimpressed look, and he shrugs back. “It means, ‘Get dressed, or you’ll be late to school.’ You have your test today, right? Did you study enough for it?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Time for debauchery!” Meelo bellows, throwing his hands into the air and running to his room like he’s on fire. Korra chokes on her orange juice and tries not to burst into laughter as Tenzin and Pema both turn red.

“Well, that backfired.”

They don’t dispute it.

While Jinora and Ikki carry dishes to the kitchen and wash them, Tenzin cleans up the remainder of breakfast. Due to personal preferences, he doesn’t own a Satomobile, so he walks them to school on his way to City Hall every morning. Aside from teaching homemaking classes, Pema minds the complex. It’s clockwork, broken only by Korra’s thrice-weekly visits.

“We’re not done talking about your questionable employment, young lady,” Tenzin warns Korra as he herds Jinora, Ikki, and Meelo out the door. “I’ll figure something out and talk to you tomorrow.”

She groans, knowing it’s futile to argue. “Yes, sir…”

The radio plays through the silence of the house, and Korra swings her feet as she listens to the music. She doesn’t have a radio of her own yet, but it’s first on her list of things to buy as soon as she saves enough money. She goes to flip through the channels. It’s a lot of static, jazz, blues, ragtime, and classical. Occasionally, she skips over radio personalities ranting about the state of the world and economy.

_“If you’re just tuning in, we’re speaking with Chairman Tarrlok about the election in November.”_

Korra stills her hand on the dial. Normally, politics bore her to tears, but she can’t ignore it after her conversation with Bolin last night. She returns to her chair and cups her chin in her hand.

_“Despite overwhelming competition, you don’t seem very concerned.”_ The host breaks off with airy laughter. _“I’m joking, of course! You’re uncontested—completely unheard of in Republic City’s history. What do you make of this, Mr. Chairman?”_

_“Like you said, it’s unheard of.”_ Tarrlok’s high baritone is cool and confident, and he enunciates every syllable so there can be no doubt as to what he’s saying. By definition, it’s a politician’s voice, boasting the region’s dry accent. Korra can hear the indulgent smile he must be sporting. _“I enjoy a challenge, so it’s a little disappointing to me. But that simply means I can focus more on my goals for next term.”_

_“You had some opposition not long ago, didn’t you? Tomi Nakada was determined to become the first chairwoman. Her campaign revolved almost entirely around women’s rights, especially the right to vote.”_

_“That’s correct. Ms. Nakada and I had a number of liaisons over tea, during which she shared her aspirations. I thought she had a few interesting ideas. Mind, I didn’t think she had the resources or connections to pull them off—but interesting, nonetheless.”_

_“Hmm. Since unexpectedly pulling out of the race, she seems to have disappeared entirely. Excuse me for saying so, but many find the timing highly suspicious. What would you like to say to those people in your own defense?”_

Pema passes through the room and grabs her coat from the entryway closet. “Sorry to rush off like this, Korra, but I have an eight o’clock sewing class. Will you please lock up when you leave?”

They exchange farewells. Unfortunately, Korra misses Tarrlok’s response during the brief distraction.

The host ends with, _“Well, there you have it, folks. Chairman Tarrlok: undisputed leader of Republic City. Ha, ha! Tune in tomorrow at the same time as always for a riveting commentary on underground crime—given by_ RCX’s _very own Candid Silhouettes, Mr. Adachi and Rikugun-Chuui.”_

* * *

* * *

Republic City hasn’t changed much in twenty-five years. The arena sitting over the Yue Bay is a curious addition, but, other than that, the poverty-stricken areas—gray, dreary, and wilting under an aura of hopelessness—are carefully hidden behind offices, government installations, and estates for the wealthy, so shiny that they catch the sun in every angle. As soon as anyone steps off the ship, that’s all they can see.

Noatak isn’t affected by the illusion.

Although he was born in a tiny village in the Northern Water Tribe, he lived with his family in Republic City for a decade, which was long enough to learn his way around. He knows exactly where City Hall is and sets off for it without booking a hotel room. With a simple black knapsack in one hand, he melds with the crowds of people and turns left at the end of the block.

It feels strange not wearing his mask; instead, it’s tucked away in his bag and between the folds of his spare clothing. Since 1894, it has served as his permanent face and denoted him as “Amon,” an elite of the sleeper anarchist group Red Lotus. Now, approaching forty-one years old, he has detached from their ranks under a vow of absolute secrecy.

_Noatak._ The name sounds disturbingly unfamiliar to him, but he knows that’s what Tarrlok will call him—if his brother even wants to talk to him.

He keeps his expectations low and resigns himself for rejection, but it doesn’t deter him. After so many years of roaming the world for his targets, Republic City is his home more than any other, and he intends to settle here whether Tarrlok wants him around or not.

City Hall and its adjoined office buildings bustle with activity. There’s some kind of low-impact protesting going on in the courtyard. Police officers are keeping watch, and government workers are waiting out the clock before it’s time to go inside and lock themselves in a cubicle. Inside, a meeting is about to take place, and the pews are quickly filling up with journalists and political aficionados. A lone bald man—a councilmember, no doubt—with an impressive dark beard is the only one seated at the table in front of the room, and he appears fairly stressed as he shuffles through a stack of papers tall enough to cause a small avalanche.

Noatak leans against the back wall and observes the room. Two men, engaged in conversation, enter through the doors to his left.

“Did you happen to catch _RCX_ this morning?”

“‘Anonymous Newscasters’? Are you kidding me? I don’t respect the opinion of anyone who doesn’t have the courage to use his real name.”

“Well, the reason I mention it is because Baon-Baon—that’s the host—was interviewing Tarrlok. Do you know what he called him? ‘The undisputed leader of Republic City.’ I’m pretty sure he meant it ironically. There’s no way Tarrlok will be allowed to stick around for next term after the mess he’s made of this city.”

“What? No one else is running against him?”

“Not since that Nakada woman dropped out, but there’s still plenty of time for someone to step up. _I_ might run. I’d have a better shot than him, that’s for sure.”

Their laughter fades away as they go to find empty seats. Meanwhile, a small group has approached the council table.

“For the last time, _no,_ Chairman Tarrlok will not be present for this meeting,” the bearded man announces for everyone to hear. “He’s very busy preparing for his campaign speech next week. My fellow councilmen and I will be answering your questions today. And that’s ‘Councilman Tenzin’ for your notes. T-E-N-Z-I-N, not E-N. Yes, thank you. No, it’s not eight-thirty yet. Please sit down and be patient.”

Several grumbling people stand from the pews and shuffle out. Noatak pushes off from the wall and, going unnoticed in the disorder, strolls toward the right-hand staircase behind the council table. Although he’s not sure where Tarrlok’s office is, it doesn’t take long to locate it on the second floor.

He steps into a lobby area and quickly appraises his surroundings: a desk occupied by a disgruntled-looking woman, a fully equipped beverage station, empty armchairs, and an unobstructed view of the snow-capped mountains overlooking Republic City. An oak door across the room holds a plaque with his brother’s name on it.

“Excuse me, sir,” the secretary drones at his back. “Chairman Tarrlok is currently out, but you’ll need an appointment to see him. I can handle that over here.”

Noatak turns his head to acknowledge her, and his eyes land on her empty teacup. Next to it, her teapot isn’t steaming. “And when is he expected to return?”

She sighs far too dramatically. “Chairman Tarrlok is a busy man. He comes and goes as he pleases. If you want to make an appointment, I can make sure he knows to be here to see you at the predesignated time and date.”

“No, thanks. I’ll come back another day,” he says, returning the way he came. The secretary mumbles something that he doesn’t care to hear.

The women’s washroom is down the hall from Tarrlok’s office. He finds a shadowy alcove nearby, dips inside, and waits. Downstairs in the main chamber, the council meeting begins with a faint flurry of voices, and he checks his wristwatch to confirm the time: eight-thirty on the dot.

At nine-oh-two, the meeting is still raging on with no sign of stopping, but Noatak picks up on the distinctive sound of a pair of heels approaching. He tucks himself tighter in the shadows and holds his breath as the secretary passes by. A discreet glance confirms that she has disappeared into the washroom. Ten seconds later, he hurries to Tarrlok’s office with stealthy steps.

As expected, the door is locked. He pulls out a lock-pick and easily takes care of it.

Tarrlok’s office, devoid of the man in question, is dressed in Water Tribe—strangely sentimental. The wall hangings are blue and white, and the furniture is a polished cherry-brown. The carpet and curtains are also blue, as deep as the arctic ocean. The desk drawers are locked. He can pick them open, but he’s not here to meddle in his brother’s private affairs.

Dropping into the cushioned desk chair, he taps his fingers on the armrests and happens to catch a whiff of vanilla. It tickles his nose, and he suppresses a sneeze. In the process, he catches sight of the wastebasket, containing a single ball of paper. After some hesitation, he snatches it up and smooths it out across the desk. He knows what it is before he lays his eyes on his own handwriting.

Of course, Tarrlok doesn’t want to see him.

He has meticulously prepared himself for it, so he feels nothing as he balls up the envelope and parchment and tosses them back into the wastebasket. The secretary is refilling her teapot when he peers out of the cracked office door. Locking and shutting it behind him, he noiselessly slips out before she can notice him.

* * *

* * *

City Basket doesn’t have everything Korra likes, but it’s better than walking fifty minutes one-way to the more-diverse Method Foods, Inc. Like with many things in life, she settles for convenience, grabs a basket, and rushes through her weekly shopping.

Sliced wheat bread and peanut butter make simple meals and, therefore, staples in her diet. A bag of salty potato chips and a few cans of ham quickly follow. After picking up a package of feminine pads, she takes a moment to read from the magazine stand while nobody’s looking her way. She finishes off her basket with a half-gallon of milk and a dozen eggs.

On her way to the register, she bumps into a man carrying his own basket full of groceries. His dark-brown hair is attractively slicked back, and his sideburns are neatly trimmed. His icy-blue eyes strike her as sharply observant, and his face is smoothly shaven. Every inch of him looks distinctly “Water Tribe” except for his pale skin. Liking what she sees, she can’t stop herself from giving him another appreciative once-over.

The man neither smiles nor frowns as he gestures for her to go ahead of him—as if it’s expected of him rather than something he would do of his own accord. She thanks him but receives aloof silence.

Korra unloads her basket on the counter and waits for the cashier to total up her purchases. Her eyes wander to the front window and, to her pleasant surprise, spot Mako lingering just outside. She drifts away from the register just as he checks his wristwatch and briskly walks away.

Eager to catch up and possibly defuse some of the coldness between them, she blindly throws her yuans at the cashier and snatches up the bag of groceries. A voice calls her back, but she ignores it and pursues Mako’s increasingly distant form.

On the next block over, she loses sight of him when he rounds a corner. She quickly follows, turning down an alleyway to the adjacent street. It’s much darker here under rusty metal awnings and a canopy of jutting black spires blocking out the sunlight. Sparse shafts of white light cut through the gloom and provide an inkling of warmth against the cold.

With a little shiver, Korra slows to a walk and squints for any sign of the elusive man as she traverses the cracked pavement. She’s never been in this area of the city before and wonders what kind of business would bring Mako to a place so utterly devoid of life. The doors are all boarded up and declaring “CONDEMNED” like a plague creeping in from every direction, and bits of glass from the busted windows sparkle as the faint light catches them.

She wants to call out his name, but she’s too curious about what she’ll find if she doesn’t.

“Let’s make this quick. I have to get back before my brother wonders where I am.”

Korra recognizes Mako’s voice and pinpoints it to the shadowy interior of a nearby building. The door hangs limp, smashed in. The boards are ripped off and piled beside the collapsed stoop. She can make out a point of smoldering red light—a lit cigarette. A cloud of smoke is blown out the door.

“All right. It’s time for your promotion. You in?” The answering voice is low and gruff, like what crawls out from a throat eaten away by decades of chain smoking. Korra hides behind a cluster of trash cans and listens intently.

“That depends. Why me?”

“Maybe the Lieutenant thinks you have potential.”

Mako sighs. It’s long and bitter, the sound of someone who doesn’t want to be here. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

The unknown man succumbs to a ragged coughing fit by way of a response. When it subsides, a small noise punctuates the moment. It’s the sound of crinkling paper—thick like a manila folder. “Take these. Burn ‘em when you’re done looking. Gotta get going now, but we’ll be in touch.”

From her hiding spot, Korra watches as the man, swathed in a bulky coat and fedora, steps out of the building. It’s too dark to see his face as he walks away. Her entire body is cold with dread. Against better judgment, she decides to ignore her alarm and confront Mako, who has yet to move a muscle.

“Mako?”

He inhales sharply and meets her at the door. He looks angry and vaguely fearful as he seizes her arm and pulls her into the building. A spill of light in the back illuminates his profile and golden irises. The folder is poking out from underneath his arm. “Korra? What are you—were you _following_ me?”

“Kind of… I saw you pass by City Basket, and I wanted to say hello. Then…” She gives a helpless motion of her hands to try to convey the words she doesn’t know how to say. Her skin crawls. Her mind is struggling to make sense of the situation. “Mako, what’s going on? Who was that guy? Does Bolin know?”

It takes Mako a long time to answer. His anger has drained away, but his fear is still prevalent. As sinister as the brusque exchange sounded, his expression isn’t one of compliance. “He doesn’t know all of it. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I won’t say anything. I promise.”

He has no reason to speak to her; they barely know each other. Their first meeting wasn’t a pleasant one. She’s still smarting over his snide comment about her gender. But his face slowly softens, and her heart twists at how broken he looks. This terrible secret—whatever it is—must be tearing him up inside.

So, she listens.

Mako tells her about his parents, a pair of activists who joined a peaceful organization that opposed the crime ruling Republic City. Within the constraints of the law, they protested and gave speeches in public forums. They held fundraisers to donate to people displaced from their homes by gang activity. They wrote countless letters to the council and police, and they spread the news to other continents to raise awareness.

“They call themselves ‘Equalists,’” he mutters. “In the beginning, that’s what they were. They wanted to make the city safer for everyone, especially the victims who lost everything. But ‘peaceful’ wasn’t getting results.”

Under new management, the Equalists were forced to fight, to learn how to shoot and use knives, and to make bombs. They sent out very real threats and acted on them. They took hostages and performed executions. It was violence against violence. People like Mako and Bolin’s parents wanted nothing to do with it, but they couldn’t abandon the organization.

During the Equalists’ infancy, the founding members gave up their livelihoods to support its mission. They tied up their property and assets, funneled their income, and sacrificed their reputations to pull strings. They offered everything they had in the name of peace and equality. In return, they were given stipends for basic living.

“Mom and Dad didn’t have their jobs anymore, and money was hard to come by. They became dependent on the Equalists, and it wasn’t long before they were in debt. When they were killed…” Mako’s eyes drop to his feet. “When they were killed, the debt transferred to me.”

Korra’s mouth is dry, and she hasn’t blinked for a full minute. There’s a terribly hollow feeling in place of her heart. Somehow, she manages to croak, “How… did they die?”

“A raid on a major crime boss. My parents and some others were sent to place a bomb and take him out. I think you can guess the rest.” He manages to shrug his shoulder. “It was a suicide mission.”

Mako and Bolin were eight and six years old respectively when it happened, and, as a courtesy for their parents’ noble sacrifice, they were provided the same meager stipend that kept increasing their already-steep debt. As minors, they couldn’t rent or buy property, so they were forced to live on the streets or be sent to an orphanage in the Fire Nation. But they were able to afford food, clothing, and other needs.

“When we got older, they wanted Bolin to fight for them. He’s really strong, you know? But I… I couldn’t let that happen. Not after what happened to Mom and Dad.” He squeezes his eyes shut and balls his hands into fists. “I begged them to take me and leave him out of it, so they made me into a recruiter. Now…”

“What are they making you do for a ‘promotion’?” Korra whispers almost soundlessly—even though she’s not sure she wants to know the answer.

“…I’m going to kill Chairman Tarrlok.”

* * *

* * *

“That young lady didn’t wait for her change.” The cashier’s eyes land on him as he picks up his bag of groceries. “If it isn’t too much trouble, would you…?”

Noatak glances out the door after the girl. She’s heading down Jianshe Road in the direction of what was once the Black Dias. He faintly remembers it as one of his father’s clubs, toeing the border of the old industrial sector, largely abandoned after the birth of Future Industries, Cabbage Corp, and other corporate giants. Whether the club is still there or not, he doubts the area has become any less dangerous since. It’s none of his business, but he’s not completely devoid of propriety.

He accepts the proffered money and pockets it. “Of course.”

The girl has a huge lead on him. Jianshe Road doesn’t connect with anything worthwhile and leads to a dead end, but there are a few alleyways that snake into the industrial sector. He decides to spend no more than twenty minutes searching for her. Twenty minutes—then he’s heading back to his hotel room and keeping her money. It’s not his problem.

Sixteen minutes later, it becomes his problem.

“I’m going to kill Chairman Tarrlok.”

Noatak presses back against the wall. If his silent observations have taught him anything since he arrived in Republic City, it’s that his brother is a widely unpopular figure. So be it. There has never been a lovable politician. They lose their offices, regroup, and move on with their lives.

Because of his cowardly act, he handed his grim fate to his brother, and he and Tarrlok have grown so distant now that they can hardly be called “brothers.” But the memories can’t be erased. The blood can’t be ignored. They grew up together and suffered the same. They’re connected in a way that can’t be defined by material things, fickle emotions, or time and space.

Tarrlok may want nothing to do with him, but the thought of his death terrifies and sickens Noatak in a way he’s never felt before. He won’t allow it to happen.

The girl speaks up after a lengthy pause. “Why him?”

“Remember how my brother was talking about his unfair laws? That’s because he’s affiliated with criminals. Everything he does benefits them. For example, I heard he’s pushing to make alcohol illegal temporarily so the black market can exploit people by upcharging. It’s supposed to be disguised as concern for drunk driving. Can you believe that?”

“Oh… Um, how are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know yet, but it’ll have to be bold—something everyone sees and never forgets.”

Noatak recalls what Councilman Tenzin said that morning about Tarrlok’s upcoming campaign speech, and he loses his breath. He doesn’t have much time.

“But I don’t think his crimes are public knowledge, so…” the young man trails off meaningfully.

“…He’ll have to be ousted first so he doesn’t become a martyr,” the girl finishes.

“Right.”

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“—It’s fine, Korra. There’s no need to get yourself involved. Really. Whatever you might think, I’m not trying to recruit you.”

_Korra._ He commits the name to memory. It’s not much, but he has a face to go with it.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this.”

“I’m used to it. Anyway, I’ll do anything to keep my brother safe.”

Noatak silently agrees.


End file.
